


knight takes rook

by lylikers



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, M/M, but these two dont, major character death (dimitri), post battle of garreg mach, we know hes alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27092458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lylikers/pseuds/lylikers
Summary: Felix and Sylvain share a silent look of solidarity in the fact that showering will wait for tomorrow, and neither of them sleep that night.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Kudos: 16





	knight takes rook

**Author's Note:**

> this is an excerpt from something much longer that got scrapped due to my waning interest in this game.. sorry in advance. no beta!

Sylvain considers himself a hopeful person, but as thousands of men emerge from the forests lining the outskirts of the monastery, he knows no amount of optimism can save them now. 

Cavaliers are racing back from the front lines, shouting orders barely audible through the midst of chaos erupting from every direction. The red glow of the Sword of the Creator and the head of cyan wielding it has slipped from his line of sight and Sylvain curses under his breath. His eyes flit from body to body, some running and some fighting and some twitching sadly on the ground. The courtyard where he stands alert is full of them, the stench of iron poisoning the air. Fate has a sense of humor, he thinks, tearing his eyes away from a mangled face he remembers training with just weeks ago. 

Maybe he tends to doze off in class, and maybe he’d much rather be out on the town than repeating the same five lance drills over and over for hours. But as much as Sylvain prefers to keep it concealed, he has a keen eye. In the Holy Tomb that night, after the air had cleared and the coffin lids lay askew on the ground, Sylvain could feel the prospect of war in the air, thick and heavy and perpetuous. Despite only trying his hand at tea with the Imperial Princess once or twice, Sylvain knows in the way she carries herself that she’s headstrong in everything she does/ Her words, her actions, her beliefs are all woven thickly together, the cogs in her brain ever-turning. She has a plan, and reconciliation is not at all a part of it. This is the reality of the situation. This is war, and things will remain that way for a very long time.

Sylvain’s lips set in a thin line as he tightens his grip on the reins, eyeing a blue-saddled Pegasus Knight soaring towards him. Her blonde hair is stark against the grey skies, and he can tell the matter is urgent as her expression becomes clearer.

“So they’re just using you as a messenger now, Ingrid?” Sylvain tugs and swivels and his horse trots towards the cloud of dirt his friend’s rough landing blew up.

“No time for jokes, Sylvain,” Ingrid orders, and her strict tone would almost sound comforting if not for the fear lacing her words.

“They need you back at the base of the monastery while we prepare for a tactical retreat. All nobility are being ordered back to their territories immediately.”

Sylvain blinks. “Where’s Professor?”

“Sylvain, I don’t know, just-” Ingrid swallows, nervous and impatient. “Just go. I’ll send a raven once I’m back in Galatea.” 

“And you’re not even going to offer me a ride?” 

“Goodbye, Sylvain.” 

As he leans forward, positioning himself in a way that tells his mount Go, go now, he almost regrets making such a comment while standing among their fallen classmates. But what can he say? When his words choke up in his mouth, the easiest thing to get out is a flirty chuckle and a clever line. 

If Felix were here to hear that internal dialogue, he’d slap Sylvain in the face and tell him to get his priorities straight.

The gates of Garreg Mach aren’t too far away from where Sylvain had ended up previously, and the cries of battle grow more and more distant as he approaches the doors to the entrance hall. The wind whips his hair back and out of his face as he hunches further forward across the back of his mount. When he reaches the looming set of gates and doors, he straightens his spine and tightens his thighs against the side of the saddle, skidding to a stop and sliding right off. Noble sons and daughters are rushing past each other, securing packs of food to their mounts and strapping elixirs of faith to their belts, preparing for the ride home. Seteth’s orders and the cries of younger girls and every other ounce of chaos being produced bleed into each other, and Sylvain’s eyes scan the crowd, searching for anyone that might /know what the hell is going on. When he lands on a familiar face, they’re already striding right towards him.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Felix’s breathing is labored, his shoulders tight and his arms crossed. There’s blood on his sheath. 

“Hey, take it easy! I didn’t catch wind of what was happening until Ingrid dragged me over.” 

Felix slings a bag of supplies he lugged from who-knows-what part of the monastery onto the back of Sylvain’s horse. She’s gotten used to him well enough, to the point where sometimes even Sylvain wants to be jealous. He scoffs.

“Yeah, because I sent her to go find you.” Felix swings himself onto the saddle in a single swift movement. The clouds of dirt wafting about are getting to Sylvain.

“I’ve got a lot of questions, don’t get me wrong Fe-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“-but right now I really want to know why you’re on my horse.”

Felix narrows his eyes. “The Knights are trying to defend Garreg Mach long enough to get all the students back home. My idiot father is still on the front lines with them all. I didn’t know why he was trying to get himself killed until I looked around for a second, and-”

“Dimitri’s still out there, isn’t he?”

Felix gives a sharp nod. “Get on. We’re going.”

Sylvain follows the order, giving his steed a pat on the stomach before getting on behind Felix and looping his feet through the bottom rungs of the stirrups.

“Why are you riding again? Last time I checked, you were the Swordsman and I was the Paladin.”

If Sylvain could see Felix’s face, he’s sure he’d be scowling into oblivion. “Maybe if you let me finish talking, you would know,” he barks.

Felix leans too far forward much too quickly, and their mount makes one single sharp turn back out of the gates before racing onto one of the trails leading down the side of the monastery. Sylvain gets a mouthful of hair as Felix’s already-disheveled bun falls out of its wrap. They circle down the trail until the chill in the air dissipates and the trees begin to tower over them, straying farther and farther from the base of the monastery and deeper into the narrow wooded trail. Sylvain glances up to see the dull mid-day sun peeking out through clouds of smoke, rays not strong enough to shine down onto the forest floor. Puffs of dirt kick up from behind them with each gallop, and by the time the dust has settled they’re already long gone. Felix hasn’t slowed down. Sylvain tightens his grip on his waist. 

“Get off of me,” Felix barks.

Sylvain sneers. “Are you kidding me, Felix? At the speed you’re at right now, we’ll be in Gautier in an hour. Do you want me dead?”

Felix laughs. “Don’t make me answer that, idiot. You’re not going to Gautier.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father wants you to come back to my estate in his stead. In case the Imperial Army needs to be intercepted once the monastery falls and their troops start heading towards the Kingdom capital.” Felix adjusts his grip on the reins. He pauses.

“Personally, I believe that’s a terrible idea. If their next target is Fhirdiad, they’d already be sending troops up north from the west.” Felix swerves with the path, and as much as he likes to pretend he knows what he’s doing, Sylvain sees right through him. 

“War, huh?”

“It isn’t something to ponder.”

“At least all that training is going to pay off. You’re at an advantage.”

Felix stiffens. “Stop acting like this is going to benefit anyone.”

As the smoke gives way to clouds and the air grows dry, they ride on in silence. Once they’re far enough into the Kingdom that they’re able to take a pitstop, Sylvain convinces Felix to let him take the reins for at least for an hour or two, though his wish is granted only after incessant whining. He takes that chance to slow them down, now that they’re riding towards and not away from something. It’s so easy to fall into comfortable silence with Felix that he almost forgets the number of soldiers he killed today.

32.

By the time the two reach Castle Fraldarius, it’s well into the later hours of the night, their single guiding light being the rays of moonshine peeking through clusters of leaves. The villages and towns they begin to ride through as dusk falls carry grim, heavy atmospheres. Mothers and children sit out on their doorsteps bearing torches, their faces falling when they realize the son of the Duke himself sits upon the saddle, still wearing the Officer’s Academy uniform. They know what this means; Garreg Mach has fallen, and the reign of the Empire is about to begin.

When Felix pulls into the stables, Sylvain is exhausted and letting his mind wander places he know he shouldn’t. It’s Felix’s voice, firm yet equally as tired, that pulls him out of his thoughts and gets him off the horse. They walk through the halls they played in as children, the staff knowing well enough not to acknowledge the two boys with blood in their hair and dirt in their fingernails; at least not now. Felix and Sylvain share a silent look of solidarity in the fact that showering will wait for tomorrow, and neither of them sleep that night.

-

As the reality of war sets in and the northern Kingdom waits with bated breath for the Empire’s next move, Sylvain begins to realize how grateful he is he didn’t have to make the trip back to Gautier alone. It’s been three weeks since the fall of Garreg Mach, and despite the fact that going through something like this with Felix is almost tense, Sylvain knows for sure he prefers their awkward eye contact over whatever his father would’ve had him saying and doing.

Sylvain learns quickly that Felix stopped allowing himself time for small indulgences as soon as Edelgard declared war on the church. He leaves no room for their usual banter, declines Sylvain’s requests to loosen up or take rides around the estate like they used to do at the monastery, makes sure his words are calculated and sharp. Sylvain knows this is how Felix responds to pressure, and that it has been since the day he found out his brother was dead. It’s unfortunate, though, that Sylvain reacts in a near opposite way. 

As the soft showers and warm air of the Great Tree Moon roll in like waves, the final couple patches of dirty snow seep into the ground. Chill still laces itself through the wind, though Sylvain doesn’t mind at all after 19 years of living in the northernmost corner of Faerghus. He spends his days attending councils and meeting Kingdom military generals, ensuring that information on the Empire’s next move is up-to-date and correct. He takes punches to the shoulder whenever he refers to himself as Felix’s temporary right-hand man, and watches his friend- his ally? Stare holes into the window whenever he’s expecting a raven from his father. Three weeks of waiting, and each and every snippet of gossip drifting down the halls of the castle make the situation at hand feel more and more grim.

When Sylvain hands off their latest report to Felix, he’s draped over an empty chair pulled out of the empty table sitting in the near-empty strategy room, the ceiling feeling far too high for just the two of them. Sylvain knows this is where he’s guaranteed to find Felix these days, though never before checking the training grounds. Some things never change.

The red ribbon binding the report slides off easily, and Felix straightens the paper out in both of his hands. His expression stays stationary, but Sylvain can tell by the way that Felix begins to gnaw on his lip that its contents were less than desirable.

“I fucking knew it,” Felix growls, clenching the ends of the sheet in his fists, knuckles white and arms stiff. Sylvain knows his upset mumbling isn’t going to give away any valuable information, so he plucks the report from Felix’s hands before he rips it clean in half.

The Imperial Army has begun their invasion of Fhirdiad, and the Grand Duke is dead.

Sylvain blinks. “I assume this means I’ll be on my way back to Gautier sooner rather than later.”

“We leave on the thirtieth,” Felix decides, anger seething behind his gritted teeth. He pushes himself out of his seat and begins to stride out of the room, and Sylvain stumbles over himself trying to catch up.

“Woah, woah. What do you mean we?”

Felix continues walking, his bottom lip curling downwards. “My father requested you have an escort in our most recent correspondence, and he wants it to be me. Not like him to rely on his son before his men, but he’ll be back before we leave and I don’t feel like dealing with what comes after disobeying him. 

“I’m getting my very own trip with Felix, huh? That’s a win in my book,” Sylvain chants, the usual easygoing lift to his words absent.

“Do you ever shut up?” Felix stops and turns to Sylvain, practically fuming. His words sting, and Sylvain expects him to storm off right then and there before Felix turns his body fully towards the taller man and takes a deep breath.

“I always thought that fantastical ideal society of yours was one of the few things you really believed in. But now, now that we’re so underprepared we’re on the losing side of a war after a single moon, all you can do is- what, crack fucking jokes?” Felix’s chest heaves with each couple words out of his mouth, his jaw clenched. Sylvain knows full well Felix couldn’t give less of a shit about the political side of the war, not when Ingrid hasn’t sent a raven yet and all of their other classmates are off the grid. Not when the late Regent’s nephew is who-knows-where and every pair of eyes in Fodlan surely must be trained on him as the prime suspect.

Sylvain walks away this time, and the sudden humidity is suffocating. 

Rodrigue’s arrival is no large affair. The reunion is void of his awkward smiles and Felix’s usual colorful insults, the tension in the air urgent and formal. He gives Sylvain a curt nod and a sympathetic look when they greet him at the gates, and that’s that.

The morning they set off for Gautier, the grass is wet with dew and the sky is the brightest shade of blue it’s been in a long time. Sylvain straps what little he was able to bring from the monastery onto his back, and when he reaches the stables Felix has already mounted his own horse. They ride in silence through the half-day trip to a village near the base of the Gautier estate.

By the time the dim lights of the town come into view, the air has started to grow cold and the sun has begun to set. Sylvain keeps his eyes peeled for the lookout sent to escort him back to the estate, marked by the Gautier crest embroidered into the saddle. Felix trails along by his side, and Sylvain almost wants to wait for one of his classic impatient remarks. 

“This place feels.. dead,” Sylvain mutters, earning a glance cast his way from Felix.

Not long after the remark, Sylvain spots a familiar face riding towards them, dressed in the uniform of a Gautier military officer, an advisor he remembers from before he enrolled in the Officer’s Academy.. He carries himself with a sense of urgency, out of breath and clearly distressed. Sylvain furrows his brow and trots forward, meeting his escort in the middle. The man slides off his mount and immediately dips into a bow, eyes flitting to Felix for just a moment. Sylvain cards through his memory for a name. 

“Jamison, is it? I’m hoping everything’s been alright with you these days, but I take it that’s not the case,” Sylvain breathes.

The officer’s arms are stiff against his chest and back, rising and falling with each gulp of air he takes in. It’s obvious he’s doing his best to remain composed, and Sylvain admires the effort, but the red of his face is telling. Based on his nervous glances from Felix back to Sylvain, he knows the man recognizes his riding partner as a Fraldarius right away.

“My lord,” he begins, voice careful and steady, “An hour ago we received urgent news from the capital. I was instructed to inform you as soon as possible.” Sylvain waits for the follow-up, but before the officer can open his mouth, Felix does.

“Get on with it, then.” His voice cracks, and when Sylvain glances over at him, his expression is unreadable.

The officer swallows and nods curtly. He unfurls the piece of parchment in his hand and looks it over once before inhaling.

“Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaidyyd, heir to the throne of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, has been found guilty of the murder of the late Grand Duke.”

Felix’s breath hitches in his throat.

Quieter, “He has been sentenced to death, and will be executed at dawn.”

A shaky exhale dispels into air that’s suddenly far too cool, and time seems to slow. The officer continues to prattle on through the rest of the document, but Sylvain can barely hear over the blood rushing in his ears, the reality of all that’s happened in the last month crashing over him at once. Sylvain thinks so hard he feels his mind begin to strain, trying to remember the sound of his voice and the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled and the stupid metal gloves he’d always wear. He tries to remember when they were kids and Dimitri would always try to take the blame for Sylvain and Felix’s bending of their parents’ rules, tries to remember his stupid jokes and the glint in his eyes when the mask of the Flame Emperor cracked under the heel of his boot. He tries to remember before he can forget, like the way he forgot his mother’s laugh and the part of Glenn’s hair and which cheek Miklan’s scar ran through, jagged and deep.

Somewhere deep down there’s a part of him that isn’t ruminating in sour memories, a part that after all this time, no gallows or guillotine would be enough to put an end to him. But conspiracy is far from the forefront of his mind in this moment.

The man in front of Sylvain is silent now, so he turns to his left.

Felix blinks once. When he opens his eyes they’re glossy, his expression contorting into something unreadable, something raw, something small and in pain.

He blinks a second time, and the only thing behind his eyes is rage.

Before Sylvain can meet his gaze, navy hair blends into navy sky and Felix is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> from here you can imagine a couple bittersweet reunions leading up to chapter 13 and then some tender slowburn taking place over the course of the timeskip.. maybe someday ill write the rest of this but today is not that day. writing in between academy phase and war phase is an enticing challenge but ultimately undoing all of 3h's weird mish mashed descriptions of the war is too much work for someone who isnt super interested in the game anymore. i still wanted to post some sylvix tho so here u guys go


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